


The Lovely Bones

by Human_Being



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Human_Being/pseuds/Human_Being
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections—sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent—that happened after I was gone.” - The events of Captive Prince through Auguste's eyes in his afterlife. </p><p>Largely based on the novel 'The Lovely Bones', by Alice Sebold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

_“These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections—sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent—that happened after I was gone.”_

_Susan Salmon, like the fish - The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold_

* * *

 

 

# I

 

‘ ** _Auguste_**.’

It was a whisper of a child’s voice, more felt than heard.

His lungs sucked the air in, a hazy white fog covering a field of rocks beneath it. Ruins of a long-dead empire that once have been, splits of memory dipping out the floor, now silent witnesses of a battle he struggled to understand, let alone undertake.

But he did. It was his duty, his and of his Realm.

He dazed his eyes around, trying to focus on something - anything - beneath the fog. The rocks he knew were there, but the battle was not.

Instead there were green grass and beautiful wildflowers.

The armor on his shoulders didn’t seem so heavy anymore. The sword on his right hand - which was straining a bit his shoulder when the Akielon Prince darted at him - felt light, as if he’d just held it for the first time in the day. A lightning memory of a sword clash, a flurry of steel and danger, he countered it, bled his shoulder; he blinked and it was gone.

He turned on his back, time and again, to check if he was darting at him again, maybe launching an attack from behind.

All he could hear was the humming sound of crickets and dragonflies.

The Akielon Prince wasn’t there.

Nobody was.

He slid it inside the sheath on his belt, and yet it felt light on him. His breathing became more of a pant, shallow and laboured, as he unbuckled his belt, released himself from the shoulder and chest plates of his armor.

He was fine, alive, unharmed. His clothes clean. There was no blood, no injury.

And no starbust flags, no bannermen, no battle, no war. No foreign prince for him to duel with. There was nothing, but the old and clean rocky field covered on that white fog.

He was now panting hard, feeling the tingle of his fingers and the sting on his eyes.

‘Where am I’, he breathed out, his voice a unsteady trembling whisper; but he know where he was.

Marlas.

He couldn’t remember the last time in his life he was scared, afraid. For he was Auguste, Crown Prince of Vere, commanding his army at the battle of Marlas, defending Delfeur from an Akielon invasion.

Afraid should be the one thing to not suit him.

It matter little, though. He was scared right now.

He ran through the white fog, his arms, legs and chest disposed of his armor, his sword left behind at the rocky field of ruins. There would be the risk of an ambush, for he was surely a coveted prize on those fields of war; but there was nothing there but him, running towards the Fort because he couldn’t even find a horse.

The Fort. The gates were open wide.

His heart was throbbing on his chest as if it could come out at any minute.

He ran inside.

‘Father!’ He screamed, running through the corridors and halls, tumbling at every open door he could find. The air inside was hazy, torches burnt down, the only light was the dim bluish white coming from the closed windows.

Empty.

‘It doesn’t make sense’, he thought to himself as he stepped back from a room to the hall. For it really didn’t; every single one of an entire battlefield to vanish in the air just like that. Even if it was a flee, on the dim possibility of both powerful armies running away together, entwined, his army could not - would not - leave the Crown Prince of Vere, their Commander, behind.

‘Father!’ He yelled, his voice echoing through the empty walls.

A small clatter, he ran on its direction.

‘Father!’ He called again, a faint whispering of undefined words tickling the air around him. At the dim light, a blurred shadow of a sitting man, head dipped facing the floor with a curved spine on his elbows and his knees.

‘Father’. He mouthed, his heart crunching painfully inside his chest, his body unable to move itself. Auguste’s breath was labored, painful, and he couldn’t move. His body went numb by the tingling that now ran through him all.

‘He killed me’. His father didn’t see him, his features blurred by the haze and the dark. ‘Me. He killed me.’ he kept repeating it, lost to his own reality, as if his firstborn son was not even there.

It was a wraith. Not the King, not his father, a wraith. A ghost he could see. He could hear.

Auguste fell to his knees, the crude truth of the reality hitting him full force. This time there was no way to stop the sobs, he buried his face on his hands. Flashes of memory crossing his eyes, as a stop-motion movie of what happened on the duel between him and Damianos of Akielos, the flurry of steel, the gash on the Akielon shoulders, his sword too open to the left and-

They have lost the battle.

His father was dead.

So was he. 

‘He killed me’, his father’s rasped voice, again. ‘How could he’?

His face slowly raised from his now wet palms, all of him burning with a mix of bewilderment, of disbelief, anger. He was dead, dead, and his father was-

How come his father was also dead? How could it be?

What would be of Laurent?

‘Father’, Auguste now crawled the closer he could get to what once was his father - his so kind-hearted, simple and gentle father, now a shadow, blurred shadow of himself. ‘Father, listen to me, Laurent is alone’. His heart swelled on anger, because if his father was also dead, it could not be of battle. It smelled as treachery, ambush, there could be no other way to kill the King of Vere who was alive while he was fighting on the battlefield. Now the only thing between Akielos and total victory against Vere was a child, his small brother, his sweet little Laurent who would not do harm to a living being, who just wanted to be with his ponies, horses, books and stories.

‘He killed me. Me.’ His father, however, would not listen; bewildered as he was at the perception of his own death.

‘Father! Please!’ He screamed now, his face a scowl of tears and rage. His father seemed to tremble slightly, but not taking perception of his presence there. ‘Laurent is alone! Snap out of it, why are you so-’

‘...But what had I ever done to him? Why would he kill me?’

‘What..?’ Auguste stopped himself in a haste. It didn't make sense.

Were it an Akielon treachery, why would his father be so awestruck?

Another clatter, now the sound of muffled voices not so far. Auguste rose slowly, as if any noise he made would vanish the voices away. Once up, he walked towards where he could hear it better.

The throne room, empty, hazy and lit on bluish light as everywhere else; but the voices were a tad stronger, more defined.

It wasn’t a sole voice. Nor just a couple of. They were various, akielon accents and veretian voices, he could barely hear what they said. Barely, but still he could: The King is dead. A stray arrow to his throat, his father without helmet grieving his deceased son. Akielons saying that was no doing of theirs, shouts, anger, grief.

His uncle’s voice, muffled but recognizable, on parley to negotiate treaty. Delfeur, now akielon land. His uncle's proposition of treaty, give Delfeur and keep the peace; he was there representing the decimated Royal Family.

His uncle, the man who advised his father to leave the fort, Auguste never understood why. A  swift surprise attack on land, he said, it will save us lives; but Auguste thought otherwise .He thought it as cowardice, unhonorable, but above all a tactical blunder;  And it turned in defeat, a twin tragedy to their realm. Him, dead on a duel, his father killed  by stray arrow out from nowhere.

His uncle’s advice; but his father had always trusted his younger brother. Who now was parlaying with akielons as King. Representing the last Prince of Vere. Laurent. His younger brother, sweet, bookish Laurent, alone.

‘How could he kill me?’, his dead father’s voice rang on his memory.

No one would understand why Akielos was so keen on attacking Vere after the Queen's death; why they wanted land instead of peace. And his uncle had advised war, attacking the akielon army on the fields, out of the fort. He hadn't understand it when he should. When he could. When he was alive, not killed by the akielon prince. 

Who had been just a sword, somebody else had been an arrow, and then King and Prince, father and son, were gone. 

It was now very clear, painfully clear.

‘Murderer’, Auguste’s voice was thick with sobs.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

# II

 

 

Arles seemed so different now. Curtains, paintings and filigrees all over the walls reminding him of the court. Art, culture, refinement, the best Vere could offer; but the palace now empty, submerged on the same eerie haze he found on Marlas, devoid of any sign of a living thing but the furniture and the tapestries.

A statement to his solitude.

Not even the ghost of his Father would be around.

So he clinged to every scathe of anything that could resemble life.

At his current world - a space in-between, he thought so - space and time had another pace, and couldn’t be measured in miles, nights, days, weeks. He could move through those places he had once been with a flicker of his mind, specially on the on the ones he cherished the most.

Sometimes, however, he could listen. Whispers of another world winding through him in a flicker of a moment, echos of things he could no longer grasp. Some other times the perception grew better, and he could even see a glimpse of something, a flash of activity, a reflection on a window cast in richer colors than the shades of grey and blue and white that were his world now.

And sometimes, more often than anything else, he could feel some variations on emotions, like if the souls of the living, even unconsciously, could talk to his own.

Even more so with the people he clinged to.

He could feel his murderer. Not the akielon prince, no. For he had been just a piece on the board of machinations from the true murderer of his family.

He called himself Regent now.

Auguste could feel his haughtiness, presumptuous usurper that was now so much at ease. It sickened him. But he didn’t quite felt sorry for seeing him at the throne, lest he’d hand it over ten thousand times - had him a chance to live, had his family a chance to live.

Had him the chance to rescue his brother.

Auguste knew that Laurent would eventually surpass him not on physical achievements, but with a sharp mind that would guide Vere through political puzzles of the court. It made him joyous, even proud. He had longed for this day, where he’d be a king with his Prince brother by his side, both of them invincible not only because one completed the other, but mostly because they would always be bonded by what mattered the most.

This future, however, would be no more.  

He could feel his brother effortlessly. It was not like the Regent, a connection out of desire for revenge and that made him feel sick, sour to the depths of his soul. The connection with Laurent was natural, stronger than he’d ever believe it to be, but still gentle, warm and loving, a soothing balm to his loneliness. Sometimes he could feel Laurent almost as he could feel himself; and Auguste liked to imagine it could work both ways. So he pursued the connection to his brother with the same relentless dedication he fought at his battles. That’s why he wandered through the library, Laurent’s room, the stables. At least the horses seemed to react a little to his presence; so he liked it best. He’d hold on to whatever he could hear, see or feel of his brother. And, when he did, he’d whisper to him how much he missed him, that he’d never let him alone.

Deep down, he wished Laurent could feel that he was there.

That he was not alone.

Except that he was. Not a whisker of his former prowess would serve to his aid. Not that they were of use when he was… alive. It hurt so much, to entertain this notion - that he was dead, his father was dead, their lives robbed from them.

And his murderer - usurper, deceiver - had come out unscathed.

Maybe because of that, Auguste could feel the Regent feeling safe, growing bolder. And he could sense with clarity his uncle was now focusing his attentions on Laurent. At times like these, his helplessness would verge desperation. He dreaded each and every time he could feel the Regent coming near his brother. His soft voice, mild and reasonable, yet a dangerous, cunning mind behind it. Laurent was clever but still a child; easy to be impressed by someone like the man he called uncle.

Sooner or later the now self-proclaimed Regent would claim his brother life.

And the more the Regent focused on Laurent, the more these contradictory feelings of dread, hopelessness, anger, love and care would mingle, his chest hurting by the constant sickening revulsion choking on his chest. Amidst it all, he could feel the Regent was not sure of what to do with his brother.

But then a soft whisper on his soul, made of both a momentarily joyous boy and a malicious man, told him that the usurper had made up his mind. And where it would be.

 

***

 

Chastillon.

His uncle’s favorite place to hunt boar. Auguste did hunt here many times before.

But the Chastillon he had now upon his eyes, on this eerie version of the world of his, resembled in nothing the memories he had.

The chambers of that old castle were dark, oppressive, the stone walls and the red draperies lending it a gloomy, dreadful atmosphere he could not recognize on any other place. And he had this permanent urge, more like a matter-of-fact knowledge he yet didn’t know where or how he had, that nothing good would happen at this god-forsaken keep.

Auguste was terrified.

Yet he could feel Laurent relishing on his uncle’s attention. Because the traitor would not simply dispose of Laurent on a straightforward attack. No. He was now bent on gaining his brother’s trust, like any attentive uncle would to do a beloved nephew, only remaining son of his late brother.

And Laurent needed that attention so bad, Auguste knew.

He couldn’t quite control his desperation now. He was absolutely sure he had to get Laurent out of that assassin’s hands. And he also knew he was running out of time, whatever ‘time’ meant for him now. It wasn’t about him, it was Laurent; yet living, but at this rate not for long. He tried to find his brother among the shadows of Chastillon, but the more Laurent grew fond of his uncle’s attention, the further away he got from the little Auguste could reach of him.

‘Uncle’, all of a sudden, a faint whisper of Laurent’s voice. Young, pure, unbroken.

The stirrings of an dirty feeling creeping on the traitor, a long suppressed desire. Vile, abject, incestuous, and Laurent was dizzy. He gave him wine. To a boy. A child.

He ran into the bedchambers, he knew it for the big bed and the wooden carved wall behind it. Auguste’s heart was thumping hard on his chest, his throat choking hard as he could feel his uncle, the man who killed his family, who plotted his death, taking Laurent in.The speared animal seemed alive, bleeding into the silk drapes of the red bed.

‘Get out’ he said, yet he knew Laurent wouldn’t listen. ‘Laurent-’

“Don’t leave me alone”, was the only thing his brother thought when he was lay on that bed, a lamb taken to sacrifice.

To give his innocence away.

On that dreaded shadow-binded jutting tower, Auguste knew that those like him could cry. Could despair. Could ask help from the Heavens above, and yet it would not come.

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

# III

 

 

There was a time Auguste believed in ghosts. Mystical creatures of the night, phantoms, witches and monsters lurking in the dark, creeping from under the beds of misbehaving children. He was seven? Eight? He knew he was still a child, easily impressed by spooky stories told by the old nursemaid who took care of him.

Until his twelfth anniversary, he was a child. The only son in the castle, princeling of the court. Then one day his mother told him he would become an elder brother. That meant, said Mom, he would have someone to look after, and no matter what them both would be a family - crown or not.

He understood what she meant when he first saw Laurent, a tiny little pink baby with almost no hair covered in embroidered soft cotton quilt, so delicate in his arms he felt scared he could break him. Maybe it was the first time he felt the sense of responsibility over something so important.

Maybe it was around this time of his life he convinced himself he was grown-up enough to quit believing on childish stories about ghosts. And monsters.

That was then.

Now, Auguste have learned one thing or two about monsters.

First, they don’t hide in dark closets, abandoned attics or under the bed of noisy kids.

They are beings able to lure children to a death trap, groom them into a nest of perversion and even make them believe that they asked for that. They are able to manipulate the innocent into granting them sexual satisfaction out of fear of abandonment, clutch them hard into their complete control.

They are beings able to use greedy fathers of unfortunate young boys to broker a dishonourable deal to assassinate the King of Akielos. His bastard son would see to that, across the border, after having poison whispered to his ears, turned out to be the killer of his father.

They are beings able to conspire not only against their kin, but against nations; out of their infinite thirst for power.  

They are beings of flesh and bone.

They are beings disguised as men.

Of course, Auguste also had some to say about ghosts as well.

They were overrated.

They could be wandering creatures haunted by their unfinished business; but had they any power to influence the events of the world of the living. If they had the ability to, say, spook the ones they meant harm… He would gladly have used it, many times over.

While among the living, Auguste never truly hated someone..

Now, hatred was clinging to him like a shroud.

If he could, Auguste would burn Vere to the ground. The same Vere he died for, he would now consume into the flames of his hatred. Vere, Akielos, Patras, Vask. Everything would burn due to his disdain for such a nest of monsters.

For no one among the living was able to protect what he cared the most.

Laurent, the only one he would save from the flames, was alone, more lonely than ever, keeping the disgusting secret of the incest he was lured to. Nobody knew the truth, and nobody cared. Most of the noble men of the Council would just choose to look the other way, leaving his brother defenceless. Fear, revulsion, guilt and the misguided need for love and care from that monster were pushing Laurent down to the depths of what he could have of worst on him; an ever present anger he couldn’t quite place, for it would break the carefully constructed illusion that was now Laurent’s most cherished thing on his life - that his uncle loved him.  

So his anger was directed to something else than his true abuser.

The prince of Akielos, his killer on the field.

So Laurent, his sweet, bookish little brother he once vowed to protect, was now obsessed on becoming what he was never suited to be: A fighter. A killer. An avenger. For that, he trained for hours, every day. He fought with a sword until there were calluses on his hand, his back ached with the weight of it.

Laurent was consuming himself on an anger that wasn’t even right. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t realize.

Auguste could feel his father again, now. He was there, but he no more babbled about being killed by his own kin. He was a silent shadow of grief and regret; for he was aware of what his brother - his own brother - was doing to his son.

Auguste couldn’t reach him, nor even tried. The dark tendrils of his hatred found their way up to his father was well. He should have seen it, who his brother really was. He didn’t. He paid his life as a price for his artlessness, they both had. And Laurent paid an even higher price.

‘Auguste’, a voice called at him. Not a wuthering whisper. He turned on its direction, incredulous, unfamiliar to the sensation of being seen.

A boy was behind him, maybe the same age of his brother. By his clothes, a servant or a commoner, but with a beautiful figure. Tousled dark brown hair, fair skin, big brown hazel eyes with long lashes. And oddly familiar, Auguste had the stark feeling he knew him, or at least should know him from somewhere.

It mattered little now, for the boy was not a mute wraith like his father.

‘You can see me’ He said, flat voice, rasped from misuse.

‘I can see you’ The boy gave him a small smile. ‘You can see me, too’.

Auguste felt his eyes stinging with tears. There was a small hope the boy was a living one, but soon enough he realized the boy was dead. As dead as himself.

‘You can talk to me, that’s good. Your father cannot. Still. But he will’. The boy tilted his head, smile gone. On its place, a contemplative look very out of place on such a young lad. ‘You shouldn’t be here’.

‘My brother’ Auguste said, voice thick. ‘I had to protect him’. The boy’s eyes were on him, tinted with sadness. ‘I failed.’

‘You did not fail’, the boy said. ‘The matters of the living are no longer yours’. Auguste clenched his fists. ‘It will be easier when you let it go.’

‘Let it go’. He echoed the boy’s words. And he wanted to turn back to him and say - scream - he could yet feel how his brother felt when he was on that monster’s bed. Confused, pained, stifling tears as he endured what he had to out of sheer terror of being left behind he called affection, love. He felt the urge to yell that burden out of him.

‘You know nothing.’ He started to say, but halted.

When alive, the boy must have been beautiful, his innocence unmarred by death. No matter how spiteful Auguste felt, he didn’t feel like ruining it with sour words about things no boy should know of.

‘You are just a child.’ He sighed, and remained silent.

The boy came closer, his eyes wide and clear. Suddenly the dark surroundings changed upon his eyes, and Auguste had in front of his a clear memory of himself as a child, happily strolling after his father at Chastillon. His mother watching them, Laurent on her womb.

A memory, one of his fondest.

Tears welled from his eyes.

‘You had a happy family. A happy life, you must be glad’. The boy said, hand on his.

‘He ruined it. He ruined so many things-’ He was choking on his sobs. ‘It’s not fair’.

‘He didn’t ruin it all. You were there, that-’ The boy gestured toward the memory. ‘-was there. You’ll come to understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘That you were there, for a moment. A happy moment. And then you are gone.’ The boy said. ‘Like all of us’.

 

***

 

It took some time, Auguste couldn’t say how much. But Laurent came to realize that his uncle did not love him. His body evolved, his voice broke, he was ceasing to be a child to become a man. And his uncle lost his sexual interest on him.

He was replaced for another boy.

Laurent’s pain flared so high Auguste thought he’d succumb from it. He felt hollow, used up, betrayed on his very core. Soon enough, however, his anger filled in the blanks, and he started to hate.

Laurent turned his pain into anger, and his anger on cloak, a shield he used to protect himself.

His brother had always been a clever boy, he knew that. His uncle knew it as well, but thought he’d have him under his control. And he had - as long as Laurent trusted him.

Laurent finally understood the trust was broken. Worse yet - it should have never been there.

He hated. Hated his uncle, hated the court. Above all, he hated Damianos of Akielos. Laurent’s world was becoming hatred.

Hatred was now moulding Laurent, and along with his cleverness it was transforming him into something very different than what he should have been.

Sharper. Darker. Cunning. Dangerous.

A match for his uncle.

Auguste thought that anyone who could take the Regent to respond for his crimes should be one to be cherished, no matter what it took to bring him down. But now that he was watching it happen right in front of him, it left him a sour taste on his insides.

His brother's only solace from his fortress of hatred was, ironically as much, the fond memories of his elder brother.

‘You shouldn’t hate’, the boy who was now his occasional companion would tell him then and again. ‘You shouldn’t cling to him with hate on your heart’.

Auguste couldn’t help it, yet he knew the boy was right.

Laurent was looking at the abyss, and the abyss was looking back at him.

  
***

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

# IV

 

 

‘What’s this sound?’ The boy - now frequently around him, which sometimes he didn’t particularly enjoy - asked. ‘You can hear them, I can hear also.’

Bells.

Auguste was listening to the sound of bells. Faint, distant, but clearly audible to them - the dead.

It’s been a while he didn’t actually listen to anything from the living. The only thing he often listened to was that ghost boy. He could also feel his father stir in response; it meant he could hear it also.

The satisfaction welling up from him was not his own, and it made him feel sick. Auguste had never heard those bells while alive. But he knew what it meant.

The usurper’s plan had bore fruit. Theomedes, King of Akielos, was dead.

_All hail Kastor._

He remembered Kastor. Theomede’s bastard.  Auguste recalled how he tried to keep himself from loathing the man just for his oh-so-veretian sensibilities over bastardry. He reasoned to himself that such a disliking would come out of prejudice, and he didn’t like to cloud his perceptions of people out of that. Hard to keep the same reasoning now, knowing that Kastor killed his own father to take the throne to himself. A conspiracy concocted by his uncle, Kastor so power hungry he couldn’t even see the danger he put himself in while taking the Regent as an ally.

‘Stupid dumb bastard’, he heard himself say.

Not that he worried about Kastor’s fate, or Akielos’. As far as Laurent were safe, the whole world could burn to ashes for all he cared. The problem, however, would be just that. Theomedes’ death also meant something else than his uncle’s success on manipulating a bastard fool.

And there it was, that awkward sadness on the boy’s eyes again. He used to find it strange, now Auguste found it unnerving.

‘What?’

‘You’re angry’, the boy said.

‘Oh’ Auguste scoffed. ‘Why would you think that.’ He took a deep breath, though.

Lashing out at the dead boy would gain him nothing. And it was unfair. The boy, as naive and sometimes irritating as he could be, was just trying to help. Keep him company, and say to him the only kind words he had on that afterlife.

‘My brother is in greater danger now’ He sighed, the boy listening. ‘That’s what the bells mean’.

‘You have little faith’, the boy half-smiled.

‘I am dead. I should have no faith at all’.

 

***

 

On the time following, Auguste tried to focus on Laurent.

It was hard.

There was little, very little left of his loving, sweet brother. For Laurent was now a man - a hardened man with a cunning mind. And lonely. He wore his solitude like an armor, he used his ruthlessness as a blade.

He trusted no one.

The good side of it was that Laurent now deeply resented the Regent. Auguste didn’t like the quality of it - sometimes Laurent hated his uncle as a scorned woman would hate her man. Other times he’d let himself go deeper on the extent of what was done to him - and then he’d swiftly vanquish it, let it out of his mind to keep the anger away from him.

For he changed that ever-present anger to hatred. Cool, calculated, steely, precise. Like a sword. It was Laurent’s sword, his weapon of choice. But sometimes the anger would come back, burning hot anger Laurent would fight hard to suppress, as it would sway his judgement. Like lava flowing on the depths of a glacier, it was concealed from the outer world, under Laurent’s iron control.

Sometimes, however, it would burst out of him.

‘I hear the King of Akielos has sent me a gift’, he sensed his brother’s voice as a whisper made of that same detached disdain that was the whole of him now.

Then a flash of anger flared high, peaking out of Laurent like a beacon.

‘Bed slave’, a whisper said, ‘from Akielos’. ‘Isn’t trained’, the whispers again, ‘you might like to break him at your leisure’.

Laurent knew the bed slave. Auguste realized he did, too.

It was Damianos, crown prince of Akielos, bound in chains.

He could feel his uncle low chuckle of satisfaction, Auguste swallowed hard.

His uncle knew the best way to beat Laurent would be using his emotions against him. So he arranged one of the embodiments of Laurent’s anger, Damianos, to be gifted to Laurent as a bed slave.

A bed slave, to his brother. A hurt boy beneath the Frigid Prince, as he was said to be. Who would not allow himself to be touched again. Who despised his sexuality, as crippled as he was left by his only family left among the living.

The rage was so intense Laurent was almost choking on it. But he suppressed it, and gave the outer world no signal of recognizing his brother’s killer.

 

***

 

‘Why are you so worried?’ The boy sit by his side, tucking his knees close to his chest.

Auguste rolled his eyes.

Death shouldn’t be like this. Watch helplessly while his brother was taking his uncle’s blows, running out of time as he was getting closer to the age he’d inherit. His uncle had raised the stakes. Atop of that, there was this rambling boy with pretentiously witty comments on his worries.

Laurent was swaying between the cold hatred for his uncle, who made him spare Damianos’ life for the moment, and burning anger at the akielon prince. Sometimes they mingled into something nasty, disturbing, like when Laurent planned to have him raped on the ring.

Auguste would never imagine his brother plotting something like that. Not for his killer, nor for anyone.

Damianos, however, managed to overturn the plot and leave the ring unharmed. Then Laurent’s anger would flare, he would suppress it with more hatred.

Even though it was Damianos’ sword to kill him, Auguste knew the heart of a man like that. Damianos did not deserve the hatred of his brother, nor his anger. He was a honourable man. He fought a honourable fight. He was just as much a victim on the Regent’s schemes as himself, or his father, or Laurent.

Auguste knew that much. But Laurent? Laurent could not see past the need - the urge - to hate Damianos for what he did at Marlas.

His uncle’s plans, yet again, would come to fruition: Either Laurent would succumb, or would end up turning into something as disgustingly dark as himself.

And the boy was here, asking him why he was worried.

‘I know you are worried, your brother is very angry. I can feel his anger, it’s very strong on him’ The boy said. ‘But the more you cling to it, the worse it will be. For you, and for him. Your anger is-’

‘You’ Auguste said, his voice low. ‘Know nothing about my anger, or my brother’s. What makes you think you can sense my brother as I can? You know nothing, and yet you keep talking like you understood it quite well.’

The boy flinched, Auguste regretted what he said.

‘You can’t possibly know it.’ He said to the boy, softly now. ‘You were just a boy-’

Auguste halted.

‘You said you could feel my brother’s anger?’ He turned to face him, the boy lowered his eyes. ‘How can you do that?’

Silence.

‘You never said your name.’

‘Names don’t matter in here.’

‘Yet you know mine. Not even once you called me Crown Prince. Just Auguste.’

The boy gave him another of those meaningful looks, so out of place on a child.

‘I understand you,’  He said. ‘I know what anger is, too.’

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my wonderful dear friend idratherhaveyou for being an amazing beta. Thanks, bae, you are the best!   
> And, of course, this is a chapter i dedicate to her. Have... I won't say 'fun' because hey, this isn't exactly the fun fic. But I'd say: Have feels, my friend! Augustey feels. 
> 
> Enjoy!

#  V

 

A stirring of danger made Laurent unconsciously reach Auguste. Strangely enough, it was a connection backwards. 

Laurent was riding his mare on a hunt alongside the Patran Prince, a mare he knew well. When alive, Auguste had helped break her as a filly. She was poisoned. Because of that she was skittish, weak, unmanageable during the hunt. Laurent strained himself to keep her going for his own safety’s sake.

His uncle tried to kill him. His nephew. Beloved nephew, that’s what he used to say, then. And still his uncle attempted against his life, as if what happened between them meant nothing. 

A part of Laurent could not see it, but things were being taken from him, precious things, like innocence, faith in others, the ability to trust.  Laurent endured, because his uncle made him believe that was the price for his attention, his love. He kept giving and giving. Then his prepubescent youth was gone, and so was his abuser. Laurent agonized on the pain of an abandonment he barely could understand. But he endured it as well. 

His uncle tried to turn his abandonment into emotional manipulation he’d use to control Laurent. “Do as I say and you’ll have me back”, the Regent almost said the words. It didn’t work, Laurent didn’t go for the bait. Then Laurent endured the sneaky smear campaign his uncle set up for him, the dirt on his good name. He endured the isolation. He endured his world becoming smaller and smaller. He endured the loneliness, found comfort on it. He endured every blow his uncle gave him, even the ones disguised as shows of familial affection. 

A prince, said to be beautiful, intelligent, smart. The golden prince of the court. Suited by so many, but encased inside himself because all he knew of life was endurance. His ability to stand the unthinkable turned him into something so different from what he once was, Auguste sometimes separated them completely. His sweet little younger brother, and Laurent. 

However, not even Laurent truly believed his uncle would escalate to try and kill him. He would not dare an attempt against his life. If not because he was the Crown Prince, at least for what he lost while warming his bed. 

But his uncle just did. It would look like an accident, likely provoked on some bad move on riding. As if he, Laurent, was a lousy rider. Even while killing him his uncle would spread his lies, brand him as a shirker and incompetent. If the poisoning was exposed, he would make it look like someone of his household had done it. 

Auguste could feel his sweet little brother wince and recoil inside Laurent, an echo of the innate naivety Laurent now abhorred so much. ‘I forced his hand,’ he repeated to himself. ‘He would not do that to me if I didn’t force his hand’. 

Along with his hatred and his anger, Laurent felt fear. He knew his uncle well enough to know that, if he truly set his mind into it, he would have him killed sooner or later. 

But, even as terrified as he was, Laurent did what he knew best: Endured. And planned. 

Most of the time, Laurent was able to mimic his uncle’s course of actions. Patience, cunning, planning. However his uncle would still win. That flustered Laurent a great deal, making him try harder to perfect the Regent’s strategies on his behalf. Auguste, however, could understand what Laurent could not: He would never be able to equal to the Regent in his games. He could play a good card here and there. He could outsmart some of his plans from time to time. But to beat the Regent, Laurent alone would not suffice. 

Laurent needed help. He desperately needed help. 

But Laurent had only himself, he trusted no one. 

And, of course, there was Damianos. Nothing would spark Laurent’s anger quicker than Damianos. Damianos was going along, playing the slave. For now.Laurent knew that deep down inside. He would not be able to stop Damianos when he made his escape. Very likely, Laurent thought, this getaway would cost him his life. The mix of cold hatred he learned from his uncle and the steaming anger he had inside himself, became so disgusting, Auguste had shut himself off from it.

He had planned to have Damianos raped, it had backfired. Then he had taken him to the baths and Damianos had touched him. Laurent had had him flogged. A gross blunder out of stark rage; of course his uncle had countered it swiftly. The Regent was so happy he almost thanked Laurent for it - even his own plans weren’t better than this. It was the perfect excuse to strip Laurent from most of his man and land.

The Regent had been slowly isolating Laurent from those who should support him. The council. The court. His land, his men. And now he placed the very weapon he indirectly used to kill Auguste on the nest of Laurent’s home. 

At that rate, soon enough Laurent would be killed either by his uncle’s machinations, or by an angered prince of Akielos. 

However, there was a sort of a problem concerning Damianos: He wasn’t exactly predictable. Not for the Regent, nor for Laurent. Laurent considered himself good at reading people, but sometimes he could not read Damianos at all. It made him angrier than when he could. 

Damianos refused to let himself be raped at that  ring. That slight defeat, Laurent saw it coming and prepared for that. But then he refused to rape a child, his uncle’s current pet, and that he could not understand at all. 

It angered him. 

Damianos refused to die after he flayed the skin off his back, a half-planned attempt to provoke the slave into an attack on Laurent’s honor. He predicted the Akielon would try something if aroused by his body, but the fear of having his hands - the very hands which killed his brother - on him took away the better part of his judgement. His uncle used it to publicly punish him even further. 

He choked his anger, and used his calculated hatred instead. Laurent manipulated the situation to have a pet doing sexual services on his akielon bed slave - against his will. 

But then, after that, Damianos called for him. He offered his obeisance in exchange for the safety of a handful of Akielon slaves that were suffering in the hands of his uncle’s men. He could not have predicted that, not by a longshot. 

Laurent hated being forced into action in the dark, without the clarity of what to do next. 

The Akielon had a point. Laurent, in any other circumstances, would heartfeltly agree. He planned to have the slaves handed to the Patran Prince. The Regent took it as a slight. That was, Laurent believed, what forced his uncle to poison his mare. 

But when his uncle made yet another against his life, things happened differently than he predicted. 

This time, Laurent himself was poisoned by an Akielon pleasure drug. The chaste prince who took no lovers placed into a plot where he would be raped and killed by his Akielon bed slave. His uncle always had a mind for the nasty details of his lies. Verisimilitude, as he would say. 

Auguste felt Laurent’s soul reach for him, a very old instinct his brother would always have. Even though it was useless, it would gain nothing on practical terms for his brother; even though Auguste was no more on the Realm of the Living, even though...

Had he had the power to intervene, cut through the living world and change the fate of his brother, he would. He wanted to, wished to with all his might. Still, he could do nothing but watch. 

Auguste knew that Laurent should have died, then and there. 

However, Laurent was saved. 

Damianos refused to comply. 

Laurent’s mind reeled through the many things he had to fight against. Fear, anger, the drug-induced arousal; but above all, his bewilderment ate being saved by the least person he’d ever expect to be saved by. The Prince-killer refused to kill this Veretian prince. 

The very sense of fairness that had made him intervene for the Akielon slaves indebted him to Damianos. The Regent sent his brother to the border, and Auguste felt his stomach drop. A death trap; he walked into it because it was the only way to repay Damianos for his aid. Laurent was the kind of man who always paid his debts. 

Damianos offered him more than obeisance: He offered him allegiance. 

Neither Laurent, nor Auguste, knew what to expect from it. 

‘You know’, Auguste said in a quiet voice. ‘I could use one of your sunny remarks right now’. 

The boy, although still by his side, hadn’t said much lately. 

‘Are you angry at me?’ 

It was a ridiculous thing to ask. Show his concern on the possibility of a dead boy being mad at him for his remarks, because he snapped at him when the boy criticized his resolve on staying attached to his brother, among the living still. Still, the word that hurt him the most. 

The boy gave him one of those looks, tinted with a sadness and a sense of knowledge Auguste could not understand, coming from such a young lad. 

‘It’s funny, you know.’ Auguste’s voice drifted a little.’I don’t know you. Not even your name. It means you must not really know me, either. Besides me being the Crown Prince-’ He stopped himself. ‘- I was the Crown Prince, once. As you said, names don’t matter in here. Nothing does, it seems. We’re just here, in a mockery of the real world, stuck with each other.’  

‘You’re wrong.’  

‘About what?’

‘Everything.’ The boy said, his voice quiet. ‘We’re not trapped here. It’s just...you don’t want to leave.’ 

‘To let go... How can I? My brother’s alone.’ Auguste’s voice caught up on his throat. ‘I don’t want him to-’ A halt, he swallowed hard. 

Die, that’s what he was going to say. 

‘Don’t you think he can win?’ The boy eyed him carefully. ‘I think he can.’ He paused, and let his eyes focus on the hazy horizon of their eerie world. ‘I think he can, because your brother has something his enemy envies, but cannot possess. His enemy never could.’

‘And what is that?’ Auguste warily asked.

‘A heart.’ The lad said, voice soft and assuring. ‘A true heart.’ 

‘I think his heart will be the doom of him.’ Auguste replied. ‘I… don’t want him to win, like it’s a game or a fight. I want him to  _ live _ .’ A painful sincerity stung on his tone. ‘I don’t want him here, along me and Father.’

The boy smiled and stood up from where he was sitting. Then he walked towards Auguste. 

‘Then you have to trust.’ The boy patted his head softly. 

As softly as if Auguste was the child, not him. 

A stirring of resemblance sparked suddenly, as if he had been touched like this before.  A chasm of a memory, the woods of Chastillon, Auguste opened his lips to say something; then it was gone. 

The boy was gone, as he did sometimes. 

Soon enough he’d come back. 

***

Laurent left for border duty, just as his uncle had planned for so long. 

Damianos, prince-killer, disguised as a slave, was tagging along. 

The Regent didn’t seem to care much. For him, Damianos presented little risk: He had Laurent on his tail, figuratively or literally - the Regent would chuckle at the thought. To imagine the almighty prince-killer from the fields of Marlas spreading for a willful princeling of the Veretian court would be amusing, even though the Regent would bet on it happening the other way around. Even more satisfying was the thought of his nephew - unpleasant, rebellious, difficult Laurent - spreading for Auguste’s killer. 

It mattered little, though. 

At some point, Damianos would die. Or escape, or kill Laurent. Maybe both. In this case, of course Kastor would not be pleased. Actually, knowing the brute as he did, the Regent knew Kastor would have gained a great deal of satisfaction at watching his younger brother being flayed alive by Laurent. But whatever Damianos’s fate, it would work on his favor. Either he would die on Laurent’s hand, or he’d make it alive to the border and weaken Kastor even further. 

Auguste could disgustingly feel how much his uncle was amusing himself at the unfolding of the events to come. 

However, there was a detail his uncle was not grasping. 

Auguste had, in this afterlife, a lot of time to see through the tragedy that cut his family down. He had gotten to see the abominations his true killer had done to his younger brother. He had seen Laurent hardening himself to stay alive, paying the price of his innocence to retain the right to keep breathing in his uncle’s court. A part of Laurent understood that, which was  why he had been doing whatever he could to buy himself time and  make it to his twenty-first anniversary in one piece. His uncle, however, had always planned to get Laurent either killed or estranged from Vere by that time, and had been acting accordingly. And now, with the deadline closer, he raised the stakes. And the Regent considered Laurent’s innate strength of character - his heart, as the boy said - as a weakness. He used it against Laurent again and again and again. 

Laurent almost came to believe his uncle, that it was a soft spot on him. So he locked it behind layers upon layers of deceit, all the kinds of tricks and boobytraps he could muster to keep it hidden. The Frigid Prince, the ruthless Cast-Iron Bitch; some of his men would say. Too many of his men would say. 

But the almighty Regent, on the heights of his haughtiness, his power and influence, wasn’t realizing what Damianos was really made of. 

The common goal and convivence grew Damianos and Laurent closer and closer to each other. 

Damianos was able to see in Laurent less of Laurent of Vere, and more of the old Laurent Auguste used to know so well - and that was still deep inside of him. Laurent, always so alone, grew used to Damianos’ presence and, ever unconsciously, felt safe around him; like the way he did when he was close to Auguste himself. 

The heart his brother was almost ashamed of was slowly, quietly speaking to Damianos’ own. 

Auguste figured out what was happening before his brother did. 

Laurent’s heart, whose trust and respect Damianos earned by being steadily and reliably by his side, was now hopelessly falling in love. 

Laurent’s mind, however, could not abide that to happen. Least of all for his brother’s killer, who was, for so long, the embodiment of all the anger he had for the world, for everything he had been put through. And it was so hard for him to let go of the idea that Damianos wasn’t accountable for his disgraces. 

But above all things, he thought Auguste would not forgive him. 

All Auguste wanted was a single chance to say he wouldn’t mind it at all. 

It hurt him to realize this was making his brother’s heart ache, and making Laurent’s mind  deny and suppress what could have been a beautiful and natural moment on a young man’s life. 

Auguste never held Damianos accountable for his death at the field. It was a duel, where both were prepared to die and to fight for their lives. More important than that, he knew Damianos was a man of honor. A man who would know how to appreciate and care for such a precious thing that was Laurent’s heart.

But, to let that happen, Laurent must let go of his grief, step away from hatred and anger to move towards acceptance: Of what his uncle did to him, quit the fight. Acceptance of his father’s death, his mother’s death, his brother’s death. 

‘You were there, but now you’re gone.’  The boy was back. ‘Leave the living be, Auguste’.

‘My brother knows his ally is not a slave’ .Auguste said, his voice straining, his eyelids forcibly shut. 

‘Leave it.’ The boy, again. ‘Let it go.’ 

‘He knows Damianos is about to leave. He’s afraid.' Auguste stuttered. ‘He wants him to stay, but he cannot ask-’

‘Leave it’ He felt the boy’s hands firmly grabbing his both arms. ‘Leave him be.’ 

‘He loves him. He desires him. He’s confused, he’s- I must help him, I must-’

_ ‘Stop living  _ **his** _ life!’ _

He flashed his eyes open, the boy was right in front of him. Hazel eyes hard, staring directly on his own. 

‘Stop living his life.’ 

Living Laurent’s life. 

Auguste realized how much he had been clinging to the living world that belonged to him no more. He also understood how hard it was to let go, and why. 

He wanted his brother to live a long life. A happy life, full of experiences and joy. A life that was denied to him, taken from him. He wanted his younger brother to experience joy, love, pride, success. 

But he, Auguste, would never experience the caring embrace of a lover; he remembered how much he longed for that. He’d never ask for a princess’ hand, he’d never claim her for himself on the sacred bond of matrimony. He’d never sire children of his own. He’d never have the weight of the crown on his head, and would never use the kingship to serve the people he’d vow to protect. 

_ ‘ _ ‘He can’t let you go if you don’t let him go.’ The boy whispered, softly. ‘He must let you go, Auguste. You know he  _ must _ .’

But if Laurent did - and if he moves on - what would be of him? 

Auguste felt his body rocking softly, he was sobbing. For the first time, he was sobbing not for the living, but for himself. 

For the things he would never have. The future of his which would never be.

‘I don’t want to be  _ gone _ .’ 

***


End file.
